Sacrifices
by Pegasus
Summary: Post episode 6 Mitchell angst. Contains spoilers, unsurprisingly, for episode 6.


_**Disclaimer: I neither own, nor claim to own, copyright on these characters or the wonderful BBC3 TV Series 'Being Human'. This story is written entirely for my own, and hopefully other people's entertainment. No copyright infringement intended.**_

_**SACRIFICES**_

_I started smoking at the age of twenty-four. In 1917, in the trenches, smoking was something that was not only a touch of normality, but was also a way to stay warm – and to not feel so hungry. So I caved into peer pressure and took a cigarette. So since then, I've smoked._

_It's not like it's going to be bad for my health, is it?_

_I suppose the one thing that I've always been grateful for in that regard is the fact that my mother would never have found out. She would have gone spare, and that's no word of a lie._

_I wondered about them for a long time after my death. Did they wonder how I died? Did they still miss me, their only son, missing-presumed-dead in the Great War? I took a trip to Ireland in 1932, just for the nostalgia of it all really. My father was long-since dead, my mother a very old woman and nothing like I remembered her. I guess it was then that reality – pardon the pun – bit._

_Over the years, nothing's stayed the same. When you're practically immortal, you suffer with a sort of...chronological constipation. You stay as you were, unmoving, unchanging, unyielding, whilst the very world changes around you. Most of the time I can deal with it, but every so often? _

_Every so often, I just wonder what it would be like if it ended. _

_I just came the closest to finding out I'm ever likely to._

*****

**After what felt like hours, George and Annie had gone away and left him alone, both with obvious reluctance. He'd had to feign falling asleep in an effort to get rid of them and that had left him feeling faintly guilty. He'd been surprisingly moved by their show of concerned, affectionate solidarity, but he had started to feel a cloying discomfort of being stifled by the pair of them.**

**All was quiet in the house. George was no doubt fast asleep, snoring lightly whilst he lay on the top of the covers as seemed to be his way. Annie was probably watching one of her vast collection of 'chick flicks' downstairs. She didn't need to sleep, but kept politely out of everyone's way when night time arrived. In fairness, Mitchell didn't really need to sleep either – but he had been left greatly weakened by his encounter and he was **_**tired.**_

**Not only was he tired in body, he was tired in spirit.**

"**I can't do this any more," he murmured into the darkness. "It has to end and it has to end now."**

**He closed his eyes and ran a hand gingerly over the bandaged wound in his sternum, wincing slightly at the lingering pain. The stake that Herrick had driven into him had missed his heart by bare inches. He still wasn't really entirely sure whether Herrick had meant to kill him or whether it had simply been a stake-o-gram method of sending a very clear message. Sure – he and Herrick had their differences: over the years, Mitchell hadn't necessarily seen eye-to-eye with the everything the older vampire said or did, but at the core of it all, Herrick had brought him into this un-life. There was a debt, of sorts.**

**A blessing, then – and a curse, all neatly balled up into one conundrum. That summed up Mitchell's feelings right this moment. Here he was, still alive, by the grace of the Fates, but the pressure of who he was – of **_**what**_** he was – had become more oppressive than ever. Josie had given her life freely for him and he had wept the whole time he had been siphoning away what remained of her life. She had stroked his hair and had whispered increasingly drowsy words of love to him.**

**Unseen, he had carried the dead woman back to her room and placed her in a chair, positioning her with great dignity so that her death would appear as natural as possible. The sheer emotion brought about by the depths of the woman's sacrifice ate away at Mitchell's soul, at least whatever soul he had left. He had wanted to save her, so desperately. He had wanted to gift her with the eternal health and vitality of the vampire. His beloved Josie, so vigorous and vital in life had refused that call. She had not been afraid of death.**

**Times had changed. Back in the day, back when he was still just a fledgling, he had never asked when he had bitten someone. Youth, immaturity, arrogance – all these combined to make him absolutely certain that as a vampire, he was the top of the food chain. Mitchell took, time and again, without question. He had learned the ropes from Herrick, who had been rather taken aback (and more than a little pleased) with the sheer viciousness with which his newest prodigy had taken to his new life. The frenzy of those early years, those first feeds had passed eventually into something much calmer and dignified. And at some point in the sixties, Mitchell had passed seamlessly from taking life to offering an alternative to death.**

**And look where that had gotten him.**

**He shifted uncomfortably on the bed. It had gotten him into a situation that could only end one way – with the death of either himself or Herrick. Worse still, he had dragged George into the situation and, by association, Annie as well. When he had moved to this house with George, when they had found Annie waiting for them, it had been deliciously close to normal. For a while at least, Mitchell had been able to drown his sorrows in a sea of normality; an ocean of lost socks and too many cups of tea. He had revelled in the easy camaraderie of the house sharing.**

**But now George was growing increasingly assertive – not always a good thing in a man who, once a month, could – should the desire take him – rip off your arms and flog you to death with the soggy ends. Annie's powers too were growing exponentially and Mitchell still hadn't come to terms with the fact that she had sacrificed for him as well. Where Josie had opened her arms to death and fallen into its embrace gladly, Annie had turned her back on it. She might never get the chance again. Mitchell knew of no ghost who had turned down death in the way that Annie had. He couldn't tell her what would happen – he simply didn't know.**

**He'd never meant for them to get this deeply involved – but here they were.**

**Everything in the past few days had happened so fast and his head ached as recent events churned around whilst he tried to order everything. First, he'd been quite prepared for Herrick to stake him, for his sire to end everything with a quiet dignity. Then George had appeared out of nowhere armed with nothing more frightening or lethal than a chair and had 'rescued' him. Lauren had killed Seth, he had killed Lauren, Herrick had tried to kill him...when was it all going to end?**

"**Now," he said aloud, clenching his hands. "Now. That's when. This is the end of the road."**

"**Mitchell?"**

**Annie was at the door a few seconds after he'd spoken aloud and he turned his head to look at her outline silhouetted in the doorway, a slim figure lit only by the faint orange glow of the streetlamp poking its way with curiosity through a gap in the curtains of Mitchell's bedroom. The orange glow suffused the ghost with colour. **

_**A tragedy, **_**Mitchell thought out of nowhere. **_**A tragedy that Annie had to die wearing shades of grey.**_

"**Mitchell, are you OK? I heard voices, and..."**

"**I'm fine Annie, don't worry yourself. I'm just having trouble sleeping."**

"**Oh." She seemed uncertain as to how to respond to this and scratched at her neck anxiously. "Do you want...can I get you...maybe a cup of...?"**

"**No, thanks." He knew he was being unnecessarily short with her, but right now he wasn't equipped for verbosity, or quick witticisms.**

"**Shall I..." She made a gesture over her shoulder with a thumb, suggesting that she should go away and leave him alone. He found a smile from somewhere and shook his head.**

"**No, it's fine. Come in, I could use the company. Just...everything going round in my head, y'know?"**

**She nodded and cautiously approached the bed, perching on the end. He studied her for a few quiet moments. It still angered him, what had happened to her. He had been quietly impressed at his own self control that night Owen had come round: he would have gladly shredded the obnoxious tosser to crudités. He suspected that George might have felt the same way – although probably would likely have asked Owen if he minded first.**

"**I was watching Dirty Dancing," Annie said, finding a need to fill the silence with some sort of conversation. Mitchell felt a surge of satisfaction that his guess as to her activities had been accurate. Humans...whether alive or not, they were so predictable. All you had to do was get to know them. And then occasionally, once in a blue moon, one of them would do something that took you by surprise. Like Josie's willing sacrifice. The human instinct for self-preservation was one of the strongest in existence – and she had pushed against that primal drive.**

**For him. For love of him. For love of what they had once shared.**

**Mitchell felt suddenly humbled. Humbled by the fact that so many people had given so much in such a short space of time. Josie had given up her life. Annie had given up her death. George was rapidly giving up his innocence – and all for what? All for a no-good vampire whose ability to cope with his addiction had failed, whose chances of beating Herrick were slim to non=existent...**

"**Thanks for being there, Annie," he said softly and was rewarded when her cold hand slid into his.**

"**You helped **_**me**_**, Mitchell. It's the least I can do for a friend."**

"**Are we, Annie? Friends, I mean?"**

"**What a stupid question. Of course we're friends, you muppet. You, me, George...The dynamic duo plus guest. The three musketeers. The..." Annie struggled to find any more analogies and Mitchell smiled again.**

"**I get the idea," he said. "I'm glad you feel that way. And for whatever it's worth...I'm sorry. About screwing up your chances."**

"**Oh, whatever," she said, dismissively. But Mitchell hadn't lived for the best part of a century without learning to pick up on the tiny nuances in speech patterns. "It's fine," she continued. "SOMEONE needs to be here to keep the house in order. If I left it to you and George, nothing would ever get done. And at least we've still got each other, right?"**

**His hand squeezed hers gently. Yes, they still had each other, but for how much longer?**

**He couldn't do it. Not yet. He couldn't tell her the final lie.**

"**Yes," he said, putting the last shred of his soul into the words. "Yes, Annie. We've got each other."**

(c) S Cawkwell, 2009


End file.
